


Introduction to Existential Metaphysics

by thefudge



Category: A.P. Bio (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged Up, F/M, Future Fic, Sarika is in college now, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17701391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: "What? I’m giving you a pep talk.” “No offense, Mr. Griffin, but you’ve never been good at pep or talk.” And she leans forward, her drunk mouth very close to his drunk mouth. Jack/Sarika, post A.P. Bio (aged-up Sarika)





	Introduction to Existential Metaphysics

**Author's Note:**

> what, this short 7k drabble? just something i wrote in an afternoon lol. honestly, i've been cooking this story up in my drafts since last year when i watched and loved AP Bio and really wanted a "college years" edition where the Jack/Sarika chemistry can be fucking dealt with. Anyone coming in with the "she's underage" spiel can check out at the counter because a) this fic takes place a few years after the show, b) she's an adult (but are any of us rly adults?), c) you don't gotta read this. go fap to your wholesome two-bit ships.  
> ANYWAY, yay, go read this trash! (which in all honesty turned out far more emotional and soft than i intended. goddamn. which is why i fear they might've come off a lil OOC, but oh well! #dumbbitch)
> 
> (apologies for any typos/mistakes, it is like dawn here)
> 
> (oh, i realize this is not how underage drinking works...for the most part. just go with it! for the #aesthetic)

***

Vassar is not Harvard, and that’s probably a good thing.

Oh, they sure like to pretend they’re not at the bottom of the Ivy League food chain. They like to pretend they are always choice number _one_ on the application form. And they even trick themselves into thinking there aren’t dozens of students on campus who only spend a year here and then transfer to Princeton.

They like to pretend there’s no chip on any shoulder.

But Jack wishes they’d wear that chip proudly. He wishes they’d stop trying to win this race. He wishes they’d drop out altogether.  Vassar is a good school with a good name, and it doesn’t need to be part of the toxic apex of the pyramid.

But of course, when the staff hears he’s a former Harvard alumni-slash-lecturer they go nuts.

The first month alone he gets so many offers for sex-on-the-first-date it’s kind of mind-boggling. He deems himself pretty virtuous for holding out on all of them. He has to get settled first.

No one seems to care how or why he quit Harvard. No one cares to recall his not-so-brief stint in Toledo. 

His colorful past makes him an eccentric figure, while the so-called adversity he overcame in Ohio gives him a down-to-earth aura of a Jordan Peterson. By the way, he hates that guy more than he hates Miles. At least Miles is a hack philosopher who actually studied philosophy. In comes this Peterson guy with a background in watered down psychology and archetypal theory.

Please.

No, Vassar just feels lucky he never said yes to Stanford.

Something is definitely wrong with this picture. Everything’s going too well for him. There’s gotta be some last minute bullshit waiting to bite him in the ass.

And sure enough, first week of orientation, he’s walking across campus while one of his undergrad lackeys carries his papers and coffee for him, and he stops short – bumps into him and almost scalds himself.

“Watch it, Daniel.”

“My name’s Darren,” the boy protests weakly.

But Jack’s not listening, because he’s having a Toledo flashback, and not the kind where he’s swallowed a bunch of benzos and is thinking about his mom dying alone in her house.  

“No fucking way.”

Darren takes a step back. “Sir?”

“Daniel, do you know who that is?” he says, pointing across campus at a group of indistinguishable twenty-somethings. 

Darren shakes his head.

“That’s my goddamn nightmare,” Jack expels dramatically.

Granted, she’s a little bit older and no longer wears pastel blazers like they’re the official school uniform, but he’d recognize that uptight walk and judgmental profile anywhere. Sarika Sarkar carries a stack of thick books – no doubt the Encyclopedia Britannica – as she makes her way across campus. His campus.

She goes here.

 

 

Okay, this shouldn’t be too difficult. This is still a huge-ass school. She might not even know he’s joined the philosophy department. Why would she? 

After all, it’s not like she’s going to take one of his classes. She’s pre-med, he’s _checked_. Yeah, she needs some humanities and fine arts credits, but she’s not going to choose Intro to Existential Metaphysics, of _all_ things. She doesn’t need to know about Karl Jaspers in order to graduate. And she’s only got one more year to go.

They might never have to interact.

Jack leans back in his chair. Maybe he should put back her file, but then again, Marsha from the Registration Office sent him a winky face on Instagram. So why not hold onto it for a bit longer.

 

 

He strolls into the auditorium in that dramatic, devil-may-care way he often affected in Toledo, only now he actually wants to go in.

“Welcome, everyone to Introduction to Existential Metaphysics or as I like to call it, the “Let’s Talk About Why We’re Still Alive” class. Yes, you guessed it, there will inevitably be some suicide jokes here and there, but don’t worry, existential philosophy actually helps with your depression.”

There is a spatter of delighted laughter that follows him all the way to the lectern and he’s feeling pretty good about himself. Until he notices the unamused face in the front row.

She’s sitting with her knees crossed, typing furiously in her Macbook. Her trademark diadem pulls back her raven hair and frames her scathingly underwhelmed expression. _Suicide? Really? That’s your hot take?_  

There’s a beat of awkward silence.

Sarika cocks her head to the side, waiting for him to keep going. Fingers poised over the keyboard.

Jack stutters a little as he tries to regain his footing.

“This – um – this class will also teach you how to pronounce all those whacky Germanic names, like Heidegger and Kierkegaard and Feuerbach…in case you ever need a… party trick.”

Sarika raises a penciled eyebrow. He can already hear her rebuttal. _Seriously?_ _We have Wikipedia for that._  

Jack grips the lectern, knuckles going a little white. From this vantage point she’s just one face in the crowd. He’s practically towering over her. And still he feels beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck.

The trouble is, back in Toledo he could get away with fucking around.

Now, he’s in a place where he gives a remote shit about what he’s doing. And she gets to witness that. She gets to witness him _caring_. Ughhh.

“Poor Feuerbach, no one remembers him anymore…” he rambles on, wiping an invisible speck from his forehead. “Even though he’s the one that really bridged the gap between Hegelians and existentialists. But – but I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Sarika is typing everything at light speed and the sound is goddamn deafening. He tries to look past her row.

“Now if you’ll all turn to the first page of the syllabus, we can – uh - try to make sense of the thorny existential jungle ahead of us, ha.”

Ouch. _Ouuuuuch_ , that was such a painful dad joke. Jack cringes inwardly.

This is not his usual intro. He’s a lot more personable and charming. He certainly doesn’t have foot in mouth disease.

Normally, he’d ask the students why they picked his class and what they expect to get out of it. He’d also crack a couple of jokes about the use of a philosophy degree in this day and age ("hey, it's cheaper than therapy") , but he can’t fucking do it with Sarika sitting there like Ruth Bader Ginsberg. He doesn’t want to give her a pretext to air her opinions of him. 

Jack doesn’t look at her again during the rest of the class.

 

 

Now, there are two possibilities here; one, she’s genuinely interested in discussing the moral ramifications of _Fear and Trembling_ with the rest of the class, or two, she’s fucking with him.

With Sarika Sarkar, both can be just as valid, but he’s leaning heavily towards number two.

Would she have picked this course if anyone else were teaching it?

Doubtful.

Why did she do it, though? Does she want to punish him for her wasted year of AP Bio?

Nah, that was four years ago. That was _high-school_. People don’t care about high-school _after_ high-school, do they?

But is she the type to keep score? Uhh, possibly.

See, he kind of messed things up when he left Toledo. Big shock, he knows.

His luck seemed to turn around when he got a teaching stint abroad for a semester in Denmark, but that semester turned into _two_ and eventually, he did not return to Ohio. He just wrote a bunch of emails to Principal Durbin and Skyped with some of his students to say goodbye and give them tips on how to cheat on the SATs because the whole system is rigged anyway. But he only told that to the cool kids, and that one nerd with the hot mom, the name doesn’t come to mind right now. Vance? Vinnie? Voldemort?

The short of it is, she wasn’t in the small group of people he said goodbye to, and he later heard from Devin that she was _pissed_ at being excluded, which didn’t make sense, since they’d always been more frenemies than anything. Still, he can understand now why it wasn’t very nice of him. Frenemies are sometimes closer than friends. Hell, he’s almost fond of Miles now. He can even admit that he _was_ planning on talking to Sarika but he chickened out at the last minute. Not because he’s scared of her, _pfff_ , but more like he’s not keen on live confrontations. She was always that brand of precocious teen that could see _right_ through him and what adult wants _that_? Whenever they butted heads, even when it felt like he’d won, he always came out of it like the Pittsburgh Steelers in the playoffs. And he _hates_ sports references.

The bottom line is Sarika Sarkar probably still resents him for his disappearance act …and his overall shitty attitude.

And there are like…a million weeks left in the semester.

Fantastic.

 

 

In the second week she corners him in the hallway before class.

“Hello, Mr. Griffin.”

Jack would like to come back at her with, “that’s Professor Griffin to you, Missie,” but as always, she anticipates him.

“Pardon. _Professor_ Griffin.”

Jack smiles coolly. Okay, fine, he’ll admit he likes the sound of that.

“Morning, Sarika. What can I do for you and can it wait until office hours?”

She frowns and flicks back her hair. “This won’t take long. I just want to know why you’re acting like I am not part of your class. Sir.”

She didn’t have to overdo it with the “Sir.” He tries not to clench his jaw.

 “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

He can hear her suppressing a huff.

“You avoid looking in my direction at all costs and rarely, if ever, give me the chance to speak when I raise my hand. I don’t want this affecting my overall grade.”

Oh, it’s just like old times.

“It’s only been two weeks, Sarika. I’m sure once we’re all settled you’ll have ample chance to show your poten–”

“Why are you talking like that?” she cuts him off. “Like you’ve never met me.” 

“I’m treating you like everyone else, which is what you want.”

A shadow falls over her face, though she’s too proud to let it linger. She straightens up, glares at him. “Very well.”

Jack opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs inwardly. She must know this is uncomfortable for him too.

“I…don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly.

Sarika’s voice is glacial. “Then maybe you’re in the wrong profession.”

She turns on her heels and storms into his class.

Jack stands there for a moment. She’s good at the whole punch in the gut thing, isn’t she?

 

 

After that he makes a conscious effort not to exclude her, to treat her just like any other student. But that doesn’t work either because she’s not just _any_ other student.

Jack is very fond of not dealing with shit. It’s his favorite pastime. How about I _don’t_ reflect on what I felt and thought this week? How about I _don’t_ work through my emotional garbage?

So he doesn’t try to unpack the Sarika problem beyond doing his best to accommodate their new relationship.

The problem is she’s hell-bent on giving him a hard time. She watches him like a hawk during class and follows his every word scrupulously, always on the prowl for a mistake, a slip of the tongue, a hidden weakness. She usually finds it.

He tends to falter more often with her group. Tends to mix up basic facts, then lose his temper and show his true colors. The classic recipe.

And when he does, she’s right there, staring him down, judging him, finding him ill-equipped. She even smirks at his frailty. Oh, no one else can see the smirk but him. It’s just a small parenthesis at the corner of her mouth, but it’s there.

 

 

He gives her a B+ on the first written assignment because she started arguing with Cioran halfway through her disquisition and the paper never fully recovered. He honest to God checked it three times to make sure he was being fair.

Of course she’s waiting for him outside his office.

She nods coolly, holding a blue folder under her arm. “Professor.”

Jack steels himself. “Let me guess, you want to talk about your grade.”

Sarika smiles. “Why else would I be here?”

 _Maybe to ruin my day and make me feel like shit_ , he thinks as he unlocks the door and ushers her into his office.

She doesn’t go straight for the seat in front of his desk. No, she lingers by the bookshelves lining the walls, scanning the titles, dragging her finger against the spines as if checking for dust. 

Jack clears his throat.

Sarika glances at him from across the room. Her eyes move past him and land on the crooked cacti posing sadly on the window sill.

“You should probably throw those out,” she says, nudging her head towards the window.

Jack shrugs. “Nah, I like being surrounded by dead things.”

Sarika rolls her eyes. “How come you didn’t go back to Harvard?”

He’s momentarily thrown off. “I…what?”

“Wasn’t that the plan?”

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “That’s none of your business, frankly.”

Sarika leans against the shelf, arms folded. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t sound sorry. She’s also wearing one of those Amish-looking skirts that shouldn’t look good on anyone. But – there’s a slit in the folds and he can see half a leg peeking out. She’s wearing green stockings.

He shakes his head. “So, you wanna take a seat or –”

“Why did you give me a B+ when that was clearly a B paper?”

Jack blinks. “Wait. You’re here because I marked your paper too _high_?”

Sarika lifts her chin. “I don’t need pity pluses.”

He can’t believe it. “ _Pity pluses._ Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

He could say something mean like _yeah, no shit_ , _you humorless bi-_

But that would be way out of line. And Jesus, why is he so riled up all of a sudden? 

“I didn’t give you extra credit. It was a good paper.”

“Not _that_ good.”

“It’s not an A,” he argues.

“You would’ve probably made it an A+.”

Jack grits his teeth. “I’ll change it to B if you’re that bothered. Matter of fact, let’s make it a B minus.”

Sarika opens her mouth. “You can’t do that.”

“Oho, try me.”

They glare at each other for a few moments like two nemeses in a Spaghetti western.

Jack’s shoulders sag. He has to be the bigger person here. “Look, I think I know what this is about. It’s about the way I left, isn't it? I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, okay? I’m sorry you were left out of the gang, I didn’t mean to– well, I guess I _meant_ to, but I had my reasons. Just know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Sarika’s face blanches. And then it turns an angry red. She sputters. “What are you – that’s not what I – I don’t care about _that_.”

“Oh, come on, you’re clearly still not over it –”

“You’re _ridiculous_. There’s nothing to get over. I was _glad_ when you left. I just came here to get a fair appraisal of my work,” she insists, eyes flashing dangerously.

“No, you came here to get an apology and I gave it to you.”

Sarika fumes silently.

Jack takes a moment to relish the sight of her angry. He remembers his days in Toledo when his whole week was made better because he got to torment her. It’s the way her mouth puckers and her jaw clenches, the way she practically _exudes_ vitriol. It really works for him.

In like a totally appropriate way.

He clears his throat again. “So, do you still want a B or?”

“What were your reasons?” Sarika asks, looking sideways. “You said you had your reasons.”

Jack falters. “Um. We don’t have to get into that.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” she says, leaning back against the shelves. Her heel scrapes the carpet’s edge. Her skirt falls a little more open. She’s…probably not aware of how it looks.

“It does matter,” he says, looking at everything above the waist. Not that he can’t look at her legs. They’re just legs. It’s just that – yes, she’s a little older now and has filled out nicely but that doesn’t matter.  Did he just say it does? 

“I mean, I should’ve told you…” he trails off, searching for the right words. _She’s still just a kid, get a fucking grip._

“Told me what?”

“That I… the reason I didn’t say goodbye to you was because I didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“I already got that from the fact that you didn’t,” she points out, making a face.

“No, dummy. I didn’t _want_ to say goodbye to you. I didn’t want to say, hey, you’re out of my life now, probably forever. Good luck being sixteen.”

Sarika’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t want that to happen,” he adds, half-heartedly, feeling like he’s said too much.

But he realizes it’s true. At the back of his mind he always assumed those kids would be a part of his life. Not like in a stupid Hallmark greeting card way. More like, _these are my friends. I made actual friends with a bunch of sixteen-year olds and they’re the only people I have left. I’m pathetic._

Maybe he didn’t want to lose them. Her, especially.  

Sarika may be many things, but she’s very perceptive. She looks at him like she understands everything. Sees right through him.

She clutches the folder to her chest.

“Okay. Thank you for the assessment, Mr. Griffin.”

She nearly trips on her feet in her attempt to get out of there quicker.

Jack collapses in his chair. Great, he freaked her out. Maybe she’ll file a complaint.

 

 

It’s 3 AM and he’s lying in bed trying to masturbate to _The Good Wife_   like any normal man in his early forties when he gets an email from Sarika.

_Dear Mr. Griffin,_

_I’m writing to tell you that after much deliberation I have decided to drop out of your class due to personal and academic issues. Thank you for your guidance and understanding so far._

_Respectfully,_

_Sarika Sarkar_

And because it’s 3 AM and he’s not entirely awake and he doesn’t buy her bullshit excuse at all, he writes back,

_No, you’re fucking not._

_See you in class._

 

He has a panic attack on the way to class that morning. Not only could he get in major fucking trouble for that email, but he’s probably burned all his bridges with her.  

He has to sit down and write an appropriate response. Something like “sorry to see you go, but you have to do what’s best for you”. Plus, he doesn’t want her in his class, does he? It would really be better for _both_ of them.

Yet when he walks into the auditorium, Sarika is sitting demurely in the front seat, diadem in place, MacBook open in front of her.

She smiles briefly at him as their eyes meet. It’s a muted, shy smile and it’s so unlike her that he’s almost as shocked as the first day he saw her there.

He’s never witnessed a meek Sarika before.

It throws him off. He keeps checking up on her during the lecture, but she’s showing no signs of distress. She’s actually less tense. Friendlier in demeanor. Or maybe he’s imagining things.

She doesn’t bring up the email or his unfiltered response. In fact, the issue of her quitting his class never comes up again.

(except once, but we're getting ahead of ourselves)

 

 

It’s the week before Halloween when the East Coast gets hit with a rainstorm that lasts for two days straight and nearly floods the streets. Sarika shows up to class looking like a wet dog. Her hair is all frizzy and damp and she looks like she wants to curse God. It’s sort of cute.

He’s doing a whole spiel on the latent theme of anxiety in Nietzsche’s _The Birth of Tragedy_ and trying to relate it to twentieth-century pessimism, so he doesn't really notice when Sarika takes off her wet cardigan and starts wringing the hem of her white blouse.

“Let’s talk about the Dionysian element of tragedy. Imagine this huge underground rave, like that scene from the second _Matrix_ movie _,_ or wait, are you guys too young for that piece of schlock? God, I hope not. Anyway, imagine this totally bonkers rave where everyone is mind-numbingly high and taking off all their clothes and grinding on each other…”

He happens to look down. Sarika’s white blouse is still wet, which is highly unfortunate, because he can see she’s wearing a red bra underneath.

Jack loses his train of thoughts.

The class is waiting with bated breath for him to continue the orgy rave analogy, but he stands there like an idiot, wondering if she’s been wearing that to class regularly.

_What the flying fuck is wrong with you?_

“I, uh…so you guys remember the second _Matrix_  movie, right?”

The whole class groans.

 

 

He’s officially a creep. He feels like he walked in on his kid and found out she owns a dildo. Only replace dildo with breasts. Okay, his allegories suck.  Maybe he should have another margarita. It’s Thursday night, what the hell, there’s no one in this bar he’s trying to impress. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe what he needs is to say yes to some casual sex. Rock bottom is fantasizing about your strait-laced student’s totally unexpected red bra. He needs to get that image out of his head.

“Mr. Griffin?”

Well, he spoke too fucking soon.

Girl walks into a bar. Only it’s Sarika and her face is red and splotchy and her mascara has run over.

“Hey,” he says and quickly forgets all about his problem. “What the hell happened?”

Sarika wipes her left eye and only manages to make it worse.  

“It’s my birthday.”

Jack blinks. “Huh, people don’t react _that_ badly to the occasion.”

“I just wanna get a drink,” she mutters, making to move past him, but Jack grabs her elbow and turns her around.

“Come on. There’s a story here.”

 

 

They find a quiet table in the back. He orders a root beer for her and a regular one for him.

Sarika grabs a bunch of napkins and starts dabbing at her eyes ineffectually.

“So, start talking. Do I have to go yell at someone?”

She manages a smile through the tears. “That’s – thanks, but no.”

“Did someone die or...?”

Sarika inhales sharply. “It’s silly, really. I was supposed to meet this guy tonight, but he never showed.”

“Aw, you got stood up on your birthday?”

“That’s not the worst part,” she sniffs. “I would’ve been fine.  But when I returned to my dorm, Ashley, my roommate, showed me the note.”

“What note?”

“He left a ‘frigid bitch’ note on my door. It was a – a prank.”

Jack’s eyebrows rise dramatically.

“What the fuck. What kind of prank is this?”

Sarika shrugs, looking down despondently. “The kind where you make fun of the uptight Indian girl.”

"That's - Jesus, what a tool."

"He didn't _seem_ like an asshole at first. We actually met when I knocked on his dorm room to tell him to turn down the music because I couldn't study. I thought - I guess I thought we were having a meet cute. I thought he liked that I'm...well, _me_."

Jack wants to go beat the shit out of that kid. He also wants to reach forward and take hold of her hand but he’s still her professor and probably even this one-on-one session isn’t totally up to code.

“Listen, that little asshole should get expelled. I’m pretty sure this can go on his permanent record.”

Sarika shakes her head. “If I make a formal complaint I’m just proving him right, aren’t I?”

“Uhh, let me think about it… _no_ , you fucking aren’t. This idiot only put up that sign because he can’t get laid with his shitty personality and he’s taking it out on you.”

But Sarika doesn't give up his name, no matter how many times he asks.

“I can handle it, Mr. Griffin, Trust me.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m sure you can, but the faculty should know.”

“Can we not talk about it anymore?”

Jack nods reluctantly. He toasts his beer with hers.

“Happy birthday, Sarika.”

She smiles through her tears and he thinks she’s really beautiful in this one vulnerable moment and the dick who stood her up is a colossal moron.

Five minutes later she’s moping.

“He’s not totally wrong. I _am_ frigid. Inflexible. I always stick to the rules. I’m a party pooper.”

Jack rests his hand on the back of her chair. “That’s not true–” 

“I know you think so too. You think I'm boring.”

That would actually be a _good_ thing, wouldn't it? He tries not to think about that goddamn red bra. 

“Are you kidding me? You’re many things, Sarkar, but boring's not one of them. Hell, you're the life of the party."

She rolls her eyes.

“And hey,” he adds, “being a party pooper, to use _your_ terminology, can come in handy sometimes.”

“Oh really?”

“Sure. Sometimes people shouldn’t be having so much fun. You’ll make a great principal someday.”

Sarika snorts and hits him on the shoulder.

He smiles. “Just teasing.”

She smiles back. “I’d rather be called a bitch.”

Sarika stares at her phone. “In five minutes I’ll be twenty anyway.”

“And…that makes it okay? To call you a bitch?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing in genuine curiosity.

“Kind of. People in their twenties are the worst. So I hear.” She gives him a pointed look and yeah, that sounds like something he’s said in the past.

“I still stand by it,” he nods, “but you might turn out okay.”

“You’re just saying that because I got stood up on my birthday and you feel sorry for me. God, I feel old.”

 “Oh, Sarika. Someday, you’ll realize how young you are tonight.”

She looks almost _hurt_ by the statement – not because he has in some way offended her, but because his words are a reminder that she will never be this young again.

This is it.

And she’s not living it right. She’s the frigid bitch.

He’s really a master of existential crises.

“Yeah, well, like you said, I’ll realize _someday_. Not today. Not right now,” she mumbles, reaching boldly for his beer.

He lets her take it, not like he can stop her. He watches her take a long swig. He doesn’t know how he feels about her putting her lips where his own mouth has been.

“Ugh, this sucks,” she says, setting down the beer, wiping her mouth. “Let’s do shots.”

 

 

She’s never done shots. She’s not even that familiar with the concept of “shots” because she keeps taking small sips from her glass and wrinkling her nose in Victorian distress.

Jack rolls his eyes and takes the glass from her hand.

“Jesus, how did you not get more bullied in school?”  He tips her chin up. “Open your mouth.”

He pours the contents of one whole glass down her throat. His fingers feel warm on her jaw. Her head swims. Sarika sputters and coughs and almost wants to throw up. But she manages a grin. Who’s frigid now?

 

 

He just plied a student with alcohol and she’s not even twenty-one. Good thing he tipped the bartender heavily. Now they’re making their way back to his place.

His campus residence is closer than her dorm which is all the way across the courtyard. At least that’s _part_ of the thought process that lands them in front of his door while he struggles with the keys.

That and the fact that she really doesn’t want her so-called friends to see her like this right now.

Jack is drunk enough not to argue too much.

He can’t find the light switch in the hallway; he has to grope for it like an old man, which she very kindly points out.

“I could just as easily kick you out, you know,” he whines.

Sarika waltzes past him into the living area. “Too laaate.”

Fuck it, he’ll find that light switch later. He follows her into the darkened room.

They both collapse haphazardly on the couch. Jack feels like a Matryoshka doll, like at any moment tinier, more compact versions of himself might jump out and take over his motor skills. Or maybe he just needs to burp.

Sarika wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Eww. Gross.”

But soon she’s burping too and they both start giggling like idiots because it feels good to not give a fuck.  

The thing with laughter is that it’s usually followed by sadness if you’re drunk off your ass.

 “Ughhh, being twenty suuuucks,” she groans, face falling in distress.  

“Why?” he asks, staring at the ceiling.

“Because you’re not twenty-one, so you don’t have that milestone to celebrate… but you’re right on the edge of it. Like, almost adult. I’ve always been _almost_ close to things.”

Jack rubs at his temples. “Wow, you really are a party pooper."

She scowls. “I’m talking about existential limitations here. That transcendental caesura you were talking about in class…” 

“Oh my God, could you not philosophize right now?” he complains, although he’s secretly proud that some of that shit stayed with her.

“I thought that’s your whole thing.”

“It’s not my _whole_ thing. Never let one part of you define you, Sarika. You are more than your age or your bra.”

Sarika frowns. “My what?”

“ _Brain_ ,” he almost shouts. “Brain. I meant to say… brain.”

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What? I’m giving you a pep talk.”

“No offense, Mr. Griffin, but you’ve never been good at pep or talk.”

And she leans forward, her drunk mouth very close to his drunk mouth. Their eyes shine in the dark.  She’s about to kiss him and he’s about to let her. Goddamn it. It’s probably her calling him Mr. Griffin that does it.

He pulls back.

“Shit, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” she asks, the same way Bambi probably asked about his mom.

“Because we’re both drunk. So the sex would be terrible. Morally and otherwise. I mean, I don’t last very long when I’m… you know what…forget I said that –”

“Oh, so your main concern is that you wouldn’t perform well,” she concludes in that arch way that reminds him of sober, judgmental Sarika. 

“My main concern is not…fucking…an ex-student…who is also…a _current_ student.”

“Well, that’s easily remedied. I can always quit your class. I’m getting nothing out of it anyway.”

“You were quoting my lecture back at me just a minute ago.”

“That’s just my good memory, Mr. Griffin.”

Jack squirms. “Could you – not – call me that right now?”

Sarika smiles drunkenly because she knows she’s got more power than him right now.

“Mr. _Griffin_? It’s your name, isn’t it?”  

She leans forward again and this time she lands her mark. She kisses him sloppily, all at once. Her lips are sticky and sweet and a little sour too. It shouldn’t make his stomach flip, but it does. Especially because half her body is in his lap now. Shit.

It’s not a good kiss, really. It _shouldn’t_ be. It’s awkward as hell. I mean if his hand went a little lower he would be cupping her ass and that’s just _no_ –

But he kisses her back tentatively, careful to keep his tongue to himself.

Sarika makes a plaintive sound against his mouth and he wonders if he’s doing it wrong. But then she moves away and he feels stupid for going along with it.

She still has a knack for reading the emotions on his face.

“Don’t worry, we won’t do it,” she assures him. “I just wanna make out a little. I’m a virgin anyway, so it would be super messy and traumatizing.”

Jack is about to argue that ‘making out’ always leads to _more_ in his experience, especially when you’re inebriated, but….did she just say _traumatizing_?

“Wait, what?”

Sarika rolls her eyes trying to hide a sudden pang of shame. She sits back down and leans her head on the couch. “Like you couldn’t tell I’m a virgin.”

“No, dummy, that’s not – what do you mean messy and traumatizing?”

Sarika shrugs, staring sideways at the streetlights blinking through the curtains.

“Ashley said that’s how the first time always feels like for a girl. She bleeds everywhere and cries. Or maybe she doesn’t cry… but she wants to. And it ruins the guy’s fun. That’s why most guys avoid virgins. Too much responsibility.”

Jack makes a face. “Who the fuck is Ashley?”

“My roommate,” Sarika punctuates moodily. “I mentioned her to you.”

“Yeah, don’t care. She’s a misinformed moron. Probably a virgin too.”

“I happen to think she’s right,” Sarika protests willfully.

“Based on what empirical evidence?” he counters with a pointed look.

“Okay,” she concedes, “but you can’t deny that men are historically not great at handling virgins.”

“I’m not denying _that_. I’m denying the part where you think it ruins guys’ fun. Fuck that shit.”

Sarika groans and rolls away from him. “My head hurts.”

“That would be the excessive amounts of alcohol,” he mutters.  “But I’m not finished with this debate.”

Sarika yawns. “You’re getting defensive because it’s true. No one wants to deal with a virgin. That’s why I got stood up.”

Jack feels dangerously close to making a big, stupid gesture. He just needs one push.

“Anyway, I don’t care…” she slurs, “I’m gonna die alone, so let’s make out.”

 _That_ does it.

“Jesus Christ, you know what?” he slams his fist against the couch. “We _are_ having sex. Not right now, cuz we’re plastered and you’re still my student, but I am setting a date in my calendar for when you graduate. I have to get this shit out of your brain.”

Sarika sits up straighter. She stares at him with half-parted lips. But she doesn’t look scandalized. No, her stare is more…appraising?

“What’s that look for?” he asks, trying to remain assertive.  

“Remember when you made us throw our textbooks out the window? And I wouldn’t give up mine? And you had to pull it out of my shirt?”

Jack frowns. “We’re…kind of in the middle of something here.”

Sarika blushes. “I just – had this feeling of déjà vu.”

“…some random bullshit I did while you were in high school made you think of sex?”

Sarika nods. “Same energy.”

He’s not proud – like _really_ not proud – but his dick twitches for half a second. He remembers the textbook incident, but Jesus, that was not supposed to be–

“I kept thinking about it afterwards,” she says with a faraway look. “I kind of thought about your hand under my shirt.”

Jack exhales slowly. Okay, _okay_. He might have to rethink the whole ‘rescheduling sex’ thing, because he can’t sit on this information. He has to put his hand under her shirt _right now_.

“Ugh, that’s so embarrassing, I know,” she adds, staring at him furtively. “Most days I thought you were a buffoon…but on other days…when you complimented my name or used all the correct scientific terms to talk about a pig’s scrotum, I don’t know. It worked for me.”

Oh God. He remembers that too. When he sauntered by her desk and casually told her he knew biology, he’d just never teach it to her. He enjoyed toying with her so much because she was such a pain in the ass.

It didn’t feel that…loaded back then, but it definitely is now.

Is this what retribution feels like?

He never thought he’d enjoy teacher kink. Jesus, who is _he_?

Sarika smiles at him and it’s a little coy and a little knowing too.  She’s a fucking mind reader because next moment she says, “The funny thing is, this time you’d actually be teaching me something.”

Jack jumps up from the couch. He shakes his hands and arms like he’s about to start a senior work-out routine for arthritis. He needs to get a grip.

Sarika is waiting for him to say something.

He should…probably shut it down. Tell her he was kidding before. About the sex.

He runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re chickening out, aren’t you?” she asks, folding her arms like she has him pegged. Has had him pegged since Toledo.

Jack clenches his jaw. “Okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get us some water and aspirins and then we’re gonna watch some Miss Marple reruns because – _stop_ laughing – they have this weird, sobering effect on me, and then we’re gonna talk about our future sexual encounter and its intensely damaging ramifications, okay?”

Sarika nods, trying to suppress a giggle.

By the time he’s back with the water and the aspirins and the DVDs with Angela Lansbury’s cheeky smile on the cover, Sarika is fast asleep and snoring on his couch.

 

 

In the morning she’s swaddled in a blanket and there’s a bucket next to the couch. Her head has been positioned right next it.

Sarika is at first a little disturbed. Then she remembers this is exactly what you should do when a drunk person falls asleep on you.   

There’s aspirin and water and a cold Danish on the table in front of her.

Also a note.

_Happy day after your birthday. Lock when you leave and drop the keys in my mail box. Don’t look through my drawers._

Sarika lies back down on the couch. The hungover is not as bad she expected but it still feels like there’s a marching band going to the semifinals in her head. She needs to take a shower. She can’t get out like this.

She spies a bunch of Angela Lansbury DVDs under the table. What if she skipped classes for today and just snuggled under the blanket? 

She can afford a day off after a really shitty birthday.

She looks at the card again and smiles. Well, maybe not that shitty.

 

 

Jack thinks about her all day.  He’s a zombie for most of his classes and he pretty much dissociates during the one department meeting where he sits in the back with his sunglasses perched precariously on his nose.  

He knows he let things get too far. He knows he can’t take it back, though. Can’t return to how things were.

So…his options are to quit the country or shoot himself. The second option is kind of tempting, he won’t lie.

He doesn’t expect to still find her at his apartment when he returns from his afternoon class. He _really_ doesn’t expect to find her lying in his bed, wearing one of his old T-shirts, bare legs crossed behind her as she pours over his battered copy of _The Myth of Sisyphus._

Like holy shit. He rubs his eyes in disbelief.

The only thing missing is a red bow on top.

Sarika looks up with a guilty expression on her face.

“Sorry. I took a shower and didn’t feel like getting into last night’s clothes. I hope you don’t mind.”

She keeps dangling her ankles behind her like a question mark.

“I know you said not to look in your drawers, but the book was on the nightstand. I’ve been reading your notes in the margins. You spelled “fatigue” wrong, by the way.”

Jack learns something about himself in that moment. He learns that he’s got a Pavlovian response to Sarika Sarkar, especially when she's lying half-naked in his bed, correcting his grammar. Like this is it. This is his whole spank bank.

He can’t tell from this angle if she’s wearing any panties. I mean, _of course_ she is, Jesus, what kind of maniac is he –

“Um.” She blushes. “Could you turn around for a second so I can put on my underwear?”

His jaw falls open.

Sarika bites her lip. “Sorry, I may have lost track of time. Your bed’s really comfy.”

Jack drops his book bag on the floor and shrugs off his jacket. He would remove his shoes too but he’s on a time crunch here. Not a goddamn moment to waste.

Sarika looks like a deer caught in the headlights. “What are you doing?”

“So uh, here’s the thing. I’m gonna kneel in front of this bed and you’re gonna put your legs on my shoulders and I’m gonna eat you out. Okay?”

Sarika finds it hard to swallow. “What – what about waiting until I graduate?”

“Yeah, who’s got the time? Florida is sinking underwater as we speak.”

“You’re…saying we should hurry up because of global warming?”

“I’m saying,” he grunts as he kneels before the bed, “that I really need to put my fucking head between your legs. It’s in the Geneva Conventions, all right?”

And she can’t really argue with that.

 

 

His hands are cold as they grip her thighs. He kisses the warm skin just shy of her knee and she trembles slightly in anticipation. He pauses.

“I mean, you could say no –”

“Please – just – shut up, Mr. Griffin.”

He more than obliges.

 

 

His favorite part is when she says “Oh my God, oh my _Goddd_ , Mr. Griffin,” because her voice drops a few octaves, almost like she’s possessed and getting dragged to hell, and he makes sure to repeat that little motion with his teeth that drives her insane.

Even so, Sarika doesn’t drop his first name even once, even when she has to press a mouth to her fist, and he loves her for it.

 

 

 

(is it weird that she's kind of grateful to the asshole who left that note on her door? she's certainly reaped the benefits)

 

 

He’s a man of his word. They don’t have sex afterwards.

They lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling.

Sarika hasn’t put on underwear yet. He’s still got her taste on his tongue.

“So…” she trails off. “What happens now?”

Jack bites the inside of his jaw. “I’m not sure. It’s kind of virgin territory for me. No pun intended.”

“ _Ha_. Was this just a one-off?”

Jack glances sideways at her. “Do you want it to be?”

Her fingers caress the side of his cheek and it’s the softest she’s ever been with him. He realizes she’s more of a Jack Griffin than he is.

And then she raises herself on her elbow and stares down at him with something like fondness. She leans close and whispers against his lips, “You know what I want, what I’ve always wanted.”

He feels a delicious frisson at her words, a greed for all that’s left unsaid. He’s so weak for bossy Sarika.

“I just want you to teach me biology.”

Jack would laugh if she weren’t rubbing her bare leg against his clothed one.

Because he once made a promise never to teach her biology.

But she never specified which kind.

His arm comes around her waist and dives under her shirt. She's still too young for him and he's probably right on the verge of a midlife crisis. But right now? In this moment, with her dark tresses falling over her face?

He doesn't really care.

He smiles. “That can be arranged.”


End file.
